A HENRY STORY 2: Trials Of The Fallen Prince

XXVI. Standing Still

The flier could not count how many times he had seen the sleeping face of the . . . of his boy. In his sleep, he always appeared serene and childlike, unlike his usual awake self, pulling the flier into the next adventure he had convinced himself he simply had to pursue, with that familiar grin and the unshakable belief in victory.

But now he looked not peaceful.

The flier had to forcefully silence the words that replayed in his head. Over and over, he saw the image of the scattered, torn papers Kismet had spread before him, adorned with smudged, barely distinguishable words. Words written by Henry as he knew him. Snarky, unabashed, whiny, yet also oozing so much hope and enthusiasm, so much . . . life.

It was only when he had found himself taking them in that he realized how desperately he had longed to hear such words again.

I have yet to tell him. Why, you ask? Well, he hasn't bothered to show his ass in this place for an eternity, so it was impossible.

Oh, but now I possess the same ability, you know? To see without my eyes. The power of this threshold is truly overwhelming, to be honest. Nevertheless, I have succeeded! Death, I have achieved it!

The flier's jaw clenched.

I accomplished what you asked of me! I ventured forth and defeated that threshold—farewell, rock bottom! Is this an achievement that will matter to you? You said that my achievements would always matter to you, no?

His talons dug deeper into the stone, so firmly that they began to hurt. Yet as hard as he tried, he could not ban the image of the violently ripped pages with the barely legible, densely scratched-out words, smudged with wear, even with blood, from his mind.

Are you proud of me? Please be proud of me. I hope with all my heart that you are.

Of course, I am . . . proud of you. He barely got himself to think it. He could not look away from the face of the boy, only sparsely illuminated by the bubbling hot spring.

But as soon as the boy twitched in his painkiller-induced sleep, the flier instantly retreated. He could not bear to see him look at him like he had before, not with . . . Don't hurt me!

His body quivered, and he insisted to himself that he would not do it. Under no circumstances. All thoughts of how it was too late now for such a promise were banned from his mind. He was here . . . his boy. He was in pain because of him. He forced his talon into the floor. The talon that had . . .

"Y-You . . ."

His head snapped up as a weak voice suddenly broke the silence from the spot where the boy lay. His back pressed into the wall; I will not hurt you, he assured in his head again and again, I will not . . .

"Is it . . . y-you . . ." The flier sat still as stone when the boy carefully rolled over to stare at him with a misted eye. "You . . ." But before he could even open his mouth to reassure the boy that he meant no harm, all words slipped away from him as a sincere, radiant smile appeared on the boy's face. "You came back!"

All the flier could do was sit and stare at the boy. His boy . . . his bond. His bond, whom he had nearly killed, his bond who—

"You . . ." The boy gingerly extended a hand, and his smile faded. The flier's heart dropped at once. He would have done anything to see that smile again. "Are you . . . truly here?" The boy released a shaky breath. "You . . . you are not truly here, are you? You are not here." His extended hand tightened. "You are not here. Never here. You are never . . ."

"Henry!" A shocked jolt ran through the boy's body, causing his eye to flicker open. "Henry . . . I am here."

"Henry . . ." the boy whispered. "Where is . . . Henry?"